Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  “I will appoint a substitute,” said Mary. “I am the sovereign of the Order. And it is needful that Scotland restore herself to her former glory and dignity.” She looked at Fleming. “You may leave me now.”

  Leave me, leave me, let me alone, to think of what has happened, of my husband, my secret.…

  The oil of sandalwood gave off delicate fumes, enveloping her, filling her nostrils.

  XX

  Darnley thought he heard a knock on his door. On the door of the King’s quarters! His quarters. Why did so many people keep interrupting him? He could have no peace! He hid his whisky bottle under his mantle, which was lying in a heap where he had discarded it. He was halfway across the room when he decided to return and have another fortifying sip. He had learned, now, how to swallow this stinging stuff, quickly, so that it did not burn his mouth.

  He tugged on his sleeves to make sure they covered his wrists and then flung open the door. To his surprise, standing outside was James Hamilton, the old Duke of Châtelherault. The white-haired, broad-faced old man looked as though he had come on a mission that was distasteful to him; his repugnance of Darnley was written all over him.

  “What do you want?” Darnley sneered. This was his enemy, his father’s enemy, the man who dared oppose their claims to be next heirs in line for the throne. Well, now he’d see! Darnley would be sitting on that throne, the throne they had coveted. And my child will be King, he thought. To his surprise he found he had said the words out loud.

  “I beg your pardon?” said the Duke. “Did I hear you correctly?” He looked at Darnley and then smelled the whisky. Pointedly he looked at the sun, which had not been up very long. “I have come to discuss the long-standing differences between our houses, in hopes of reaching an understanding. Will you not do me the honour to invite me in?”

  “No,” said Darnley. “No, I will not. When does one invite a foe to step over his threshold?”

  “But I come not as a foe.” Châtelherault’s voice was rising.

  “Never as a friend!” cried Darnley. “You tried to betray the Queen, and set your crazy son on her! The Earl of Arran, he fain would have kidnapped her—”

  At the sound of his son’s name, the Duke stiffened. “Do not insult my family!”

  “He’s still crazy, is he not? Locked up in your house, as befits a madman.”

  “I came to speak peacefully, but I see there can be no peace with such an ass as you!”

  “When I am well, I will knock your pate! Be thankful I have not yet recovered my strength!”

  “Fool! Fool of a boy!” The Duke turned his back and walked away.

  * * *

  Messengers were sent out all over Scotland to summon certain men to Stirling to attend the ceremony of the Order of the Thistle, to be held at Her Majesty’s pleasure.

  Lord James, in Edinburgh, decided that he had urgent business in the city that would, alas, prevent his coming thither to Stirling.

  William Maitland of Lethington, already departed for France to seek the approval of the King and Queen Regent for the marriage of Queen Mary and Lord Darnley, was not there to receive the summons.

  James Melville made ready for the journey, puzzled as to the wherefore of the ceremony.

  Erskine, Morton, Ruthven, Lindsay, Argyll, and Kirkcaldy of Grange accepted and began choosing their wardrobes.

  Paul de Foix, the French ambassador, had been assigned quarters.

  John Knox had not been invited.

  James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, secretly returned without royal permission to his ancestral home in Liddesdale, did not even hear about it.

  * * *

  Into the Chapel Royal, now hung with royal banners and the green and white banners of the Order (hastily sewn up to be ready for the ceremony), Mary Queen of Scots came in procession, her head held high and her gait majestic. Around her shoulders was the gold chain of the Order, enamelled with thistles and sprigs of rue, last worn by her father in 1540. Around her ankles were the golden spurs of knighthood, and she wore a dark green velvet mantle the colour of an ancient forest.

  The fourteen men to be dubbed Knights Companion of the Order were awaiting her, standing at attention. They had fasted and kept vigil all night as custom demanded. Now she, with her attendants, took her place in front of the altar.

  The Lord Lyon King of Arms strode forward and puffed out his chest.

  “Now you, as worthy knights, chosen by your sovereign to attend her in this noble and ancient order, must come one by one and swear allegiance to your Queen, and to the Order of the Thistle as well, bearing in mind its motto: Nemo me impune lacessit.” He gestured toward the banner, with the cross of Saint Andrew and the satin thistle superimposed. “‘No one harms me with impunity.’”

  The trumpeters blew two blasts on their silver horns.

  Mary now raised her hands, and the long sleeves of her garment hung heavy, almost to her knees.

  “My good people, loyal nobles. As a woman, I am unable to perform the ceremony, for I myself am not a knight. Therefore it is my pleasure to exercise the ancient prerogative of choosing my knight to carry out the duties of an office restricted to men and forbidden to women.”

  Everyone stood even straighter, waiting.

  “Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley, come forth.” Her voice rang loud in the high-ceilinged chapel.

  From one of the back stalls a movement: a tall, blue-velvet-clad figure emerged from the shadows and walked down the center aisle. He took his place before her. For a long moment he and the Queen stood close, eye to eye. Everyone in the chapel was aware of the look that passed between them: a look of desire and purpose. Then he knelt on the footstool in front of her, his new-soled boots showing shiny leather faces toward his audience.

  “Take your oath,” she commanded him.

  “I shall defend the Christian faith with all my power,” he said in a loud voice. “I shall be leal and true to my Sovereign Lady, the Queen of Scotland, and her successors.

  “I shall use and exercise myself in the office of chivalry.

  “I shall do diligence whenever I hear there are murderers, robbers, or masterful thieves who oppress the people, and bring them to the laws to the utmost of my power.

  “I shall never fly from my Queen, master, or fellow in dishonour in time of need.

  “I shall fortify, maintain, and defend the noble Order of Knight of which I am ready to receive the horse, arms, and knightly habiliment, according to my power.

  “I shall never bear treason about in my heart against our Sovereign Lady the Queen, but shall discover the same to her. So help me God, the holy Evangel, by my own hand, and by God Himself.”

  “Amen,” said Mary. She bent down and lifted her gown, unbuckling the golden spurs. Then she held them up and passed them to the knight standing before her. She cupped his hands as she gave them to him.

  “Fasten them on,” she said. She took the sword that had belonged to her father and then touched his neck lightly on each side.

  “I dub thee Sir Henry.”

  He stood back up, his spurs clicking on his slender ankles.

  “I create you Lord of Ardmanach, a baron and a peer of Parliament.”

  He inclined his head slightly.

  “And last, for now, I do name you to be Earl of Ross.”

  The inaudible gasp from the nobles present was louder than any audible one. Earl of Ross was a royal title, to be borne only by a Scottish prince.

  He knelt on the footstool once more.

  “I shall be true and leal to my Sovereign Lady, Queen of Scotland, maintain and defend Her Highness’s body, realm, lieges, and laws, to the utmost of my power. So help me God, the holy Evangel, and mine own hand.”

  She bid him rise, then motioned to a servitor, who brought out a belt and a sword upon a velvet pillow.

  “The belt of your title,” she said, fastening it about him.

  “Now, my Lord of Ross, I request you do my office, wearing the spurs of knighthood, and invest th
e candidates for knighthood in the Order.”

  * * *

  Passing out of the chapel into the May sunshine, she saw Throckmorton standing anxiously to one side, near the passage to the Great Hall, where the ceremonial tables were already laid.

  “Your face is long,” she said, coming to him.

  “The Earl of Ross is a royal title,” said Throckmorton.

  “The Lord Darnley has royal blood, has he not?” she replied.

  “More to the point, in spite of the noble declarations of loyalty he has made, to accept a Scottish title and nomination to the Scottish Parliament is to repudiate his allegiance to his own country, England, and his own sovereign, Elizabeth. In swearing fealty to you, he has betrayed his own Queen.”

  “How so? I have not called upon him to repudiate her.”

  “A man can have only one sovereign, Your Majesty. And he who changes his master so easily today can change again tomorrow. Beware.” Throckmorton sounded sad—whether at her ignorance or at her implied duplicity she could not tell. It stung her.

  “Your mistress changes her behaviour to suit her clothes; each day she professes something different, promises something different, takes back what she says!” replied Mary.

  “But her courtiers and knights never waver in their loyalty to her. She has not known the sting of false servants and councilmen,” said Throckmorton. “And this Darnley, having once turned his coat, is like to turn it again. I—”

  “I have not yet created him Duke of Albany, the highest title of all. I await the word of Queen Elizabeth before proceeding further. I wish to show her respect and give her the opportunity to bless this marriage after all,” Mary said. “You see how reasonable I am and do remain. For the moment. Good day.” She lifted her head and, catching up her green velvet mantle, turned to go into the hall for the feast.

  * * *

  Mary sat on a stool, holding an ivory-backed mirror in her hand. In its dull reflection—even aided with light from the open window of her privy chamber—she could not see her own features sharply. She looked closely at her eyes, searching their depths. But all she saw was the searching within them.

  Was she different? She felt different, and wondered if it was visible. Poets spoke of love showing in the eyes, changing the features. But then, she strove to remain unchanged in outward appearance.

  She looked at her ears, hanging with heavy earrings: a gift from Darnley. They had sapphires and diamonds and an elaborate metaphorical message about families and heirs and hopes and destiny.

  “But we have no need of symbolism,” he had said, bending his fair head down and kissing her breasts. “Symbolism is a poor cousin for what is at hand.”

  Then he had …

  Remembering it, Mary felt herself blushing, just as Flamina pushed open the door and advanced toward her with a letter.

  “It is from France,” she said, handing it to her mistress.

  It was heavy, and Mary recognized the seal of the Cardinal upon it. Thank Heaven! It was he, her uncle the Cardinal, whose advice and opinion she most sought in these perilous waters. She had waited weeks for his reply.

  “Thank you,” she said, taking the letter and breaking open its thick, brittle orange wax seal.

  “Dearest niece and sister in Christ”—

  Yes, yes.

  “We are apprised of the situation with the Lord Darnley, a prince of royal blood and one whom we had the opportunity to observe at leisure during his sojourns in France at various times. We are well aware of his lineage, his niceness of person, and his general commendations.”

  She closed her eyes and clasped the letter to her bosom. Oh, thank you, dear Lord.

  At length she commenced reading again.

  “My child, if it were not for my deep love of you and my concern as your uncle and shepherd in Christ, I would not speak. But I must. Without giving particulars (for there were a hundred of them, observed over time when he abided here without the restraining hand of a parent), I must tell you that in my opinion he is un gentil hutaudeau, a highborn quarrelsome coxcomb, a weakling who is propped up and held aloof only by the valour of his ancestors and the resultant titles in recognition. But these were bestowed by long-ago sovereigns upon long-dead ancestors. It is for the living to reevaluate, and alas, the living scion of the House of Darnley is not worthy of you. Pray, spare yourself—”

  She uttered a groan and crumpled the paper.

  Uncle. Et tu?

  Why does no one see him as I do? she cried out in private anguish.

  * * *

  A letter was delivered from the Duke of Châtelherault, complaining of the dishonour the Earl of Ross had done him in threatening to knock him about the pate for an imagined slight.

  “Such a challenge is hardly to be ignored, except when one bears in mind the issuer of it,” he had written. “Then it is best reported to a higher authority.”

  The Duke and Darnley’s father were old political foes, thought Mary, and of course the Duke would oppose any elevation of the Lennox Stuarts. But had Darnley actually threatened to “knock his pate as soon as he be well enough,” as the Duke claimed?

  And why did he not tell me of this? Mary asked herself.

  * * *

  Throckmorton had enjoyed the fire in the dining room at the inn in Stirling, and dreaded going up to his solitary room. The singing was still hearty in the common room; in fact the verses were just becoming scurrilous, albeit in Scots it was difficult to follow. But if he drank any more, his head would ring in the morrow. Reluctantly he paid his reckoning and made his way up the steep steps to his cold but well-appointed room. Sighing—for his inclination was to go straightway to bed—he forced himself to put his candle down and sit before his work desk. He must write to Cecil and Elizabeth.

  “The Lord Darnley,” he wrote, his pen reluctantly forming each word—oh, how he wanted to sleep!—“received the honours specified, after my last audience a few days earlier, the creation of the Duke of Albany only excepted—the conferring of which honour the Queen did promise to defer till she might hear how Your Majesty would accept the proceedings and answer to my legation.”

  He filled his cheeks with air and slowly blew it out.

  “Nevertheless, I do find this Queen so captivated by love or cunning, or rather, to say truly, by boasting and folly, that she is not able to keep promise with herself, and therefore not able to keep promise with Your Majesty in these matters.”

  Now to the crux of it.

  “This Queen is so far passed in this matter with my Lord Darnley that it is irrevocable, and no place left to dissolve the same, unless by violence.”

  XXI

  Mary smoothed down her doublet and turned her foot this way and that, studying the way her leg looked in the wine-coloured trunk-hose.

  “Do you think this looks like a man’s leg?” she asked Darnley, standing beside her in her chamber. “Or is it too slender?”

  Darnley stuck out his own for comparison, and it was nearly as slim as hers.

  “Certainly not. ’Tis a most masculine and fine leg,” he replied. “Come, you dally overlong. I think you are afraid to do as your father did, for all your suggestion of it.”

  “When my father went abroad in disguise, it was as Goodman Ballengeich, not Goodwoman Ballengeich. This is a more extreme change.” She fingered the knot of hair underneath her velvet cap. She was afraid it would come tumbling down if the fastenings came loose: the cap was too small to contain it.

  “You make a fine man,” he said. “You are too tall to pass for any woman but yourself. Now Queen Elizabeth, though lower in stature, must needs disguise herself as a woman every day. She is by nature a man, so her gowns and jewels are called upon to disguise the fact and let her rule as a queen—for she can hardly be a king.”

  Mary nudged him, then spun round and kissed him. “You are wicked. But is this true?”

  “There is talk amongst her launder-women that her courses are not as normal women’s,” he said. “In t
ruth, they do not talk but as they are paid to talk,” he admitted.

  “Paid people will swear to anything,” she said. “It is when people must pay themselves for what they say that one can believe them.”

  Darnley made a gesture of impatience. “Come, my Queen. You make a perfect man. The night grows older, even as we do.” He took her hand. “Let us go!”

  Together they descended the little winding staircase connecting Mary’s bedroom with Darnley’s at Holyrood Palace; then they traversed his suite of rooms to emerge into the wide forecourt of the palace.

  Past the flaming torches in the forecourt they ran, hand in hand, and over the drawbridge and past the great gates separating the Palace from the Canongate leading up to the Edinburgh city wall.

  It was a fine July evening, and light still lingered in the sky even at ten o’clock. The Canongate would be full of people strolling up and down, and attending to late business, so they went around by the Horse Wynd, the nearest side street to the palace gates, walked for a bit on the Cowgate, the great street parallel to Canongate, and then cut back through by way of Blackfriars Wynd. This way no one could know they had come from Holyrood Palace. The wynds were silent and dark and afforded private passage.

  “I love Edinburgh,” Darnley whispered as they stopped to catch their breath. “It is so secret, so tantalizing. All these side streets, branching off the main one, the tall buildings, the deserted closes—so different from London. A man may come and go here, unlike Stirling. I am glad we left Stirling.”

  Together they emerged from Blackfriars Wynd and began walking up the Canongate. So many people were abroad it seemed like a holiday fair.

  “Good evening,” said one man, touching his cap.

  “Good evening,” Darnley replied, touching his. Mary imitated him.

  “Good evening,” boomed another voice, belonging to a rotund merchant making his way purposefully toward the Netherbow gate. They followed him and passed through the great wall of Edinburgh and its city gate, and emerged on the other side of the High Street. Almost immediately to their right stood Knox’s house. A light showed from its deepest quarters, but the work room, over the sidewalk, was dark.